Reincarnations 


James 
Stephen:* 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


REINCARNATIONS 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK    ■    BOSTON    •    CHICAGO  -    DALLAS 
ATLANTA   •    SAN    FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON  •  BOMBAY  •  CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


REINCARNATIONS 


BY 
JAMES  STEPHENS 

AUTHOR   OF    "  THE    HILL   OF   VISION  ' 
"THE   CROCK  OF  GOLD,"    ETC. 


Ncto  gork 

THE  MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1918 

All  rights  reserved 


TAG  "R4 


Copyright,  1918, 
By  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  April,  1918. 


TO 

ALICE  STOPFORD  GREEN 


CONTENTS 


Geoffrey  Keating 
Mary  Hynes  (after  Raftery) 

The  Coolun  do. 

Peggy  Mitchell  do. 

Nancy  Walsh  do. 

The  Red  Man's  Wife   do. 


Nancy  Walsh 

do. 

Anthony  O'Daly 

do. 

Mary  Ruane 

do. 

William  O'Kelly 

do. 

Sean  O'Cosgair 

do. 

The  County  Mayo 

do. 

Eileen,  Diarmuid  and  Teig  (after  O'Rahilly) 
Honoro  Butler  and  Lord  Kenmare    do. 
Clann  Cartie  do. 

The  Land  of  Fal  (Anon.)      . 
Inis  Fal  (after  O'Rahilly)        . 
Owen  O'Neill  (after  Pierce  Ferriter) 
Egan  O'Rahilly  (after  O'Rahilly) 

7 


PAGE 
11 

13 
14 
16 
18 
19 
21 
23 
24 
25 
27 
29 
31 
33 
38 
41 
43 
44 
45 


8 


CONTENTS 


Righteous  Anger  (after  O'Bruadair) 
The  Weavers  do. 
Odell  do. 
The  Apology  do. 
The  Gang  do. 
The  Geraldine's  Cloak  do. 
Skim-Milk  do. 
Blue  Blood  do. 
O'Bruaidar  do. 
Note 


PAGE 

47 
49 
51 
53 
55 
60 
62 
65 
67 
71 


REINCARNATIONS 


GEOFFREY  KEATING 

O  woman  full  of  wiliness  ! 

Although  for  love  of  me  you  pine, 
Withhold  your  hand  adventurous, 

It  holdeth  nothing  holding  mine. 


Look  on  my  head,  how  it  is  grey ! 

My  body's  weakness  doth  appear ; 
My  blood  is  chill  and  thin ;   my  day 

Is  done,  and  there  is  nothing  here. 


Do  not  call  me  a  foolish  man, 

Nor  lean  your  lovely  cheek  to  mine : 

O  slender  witch,  our  bodies  can 
Not  mingle  now,  nor  any  time. 

11 


12       GEOFFREY  KEATING 

So  take  your  mouth  from  mine,  your 
hand 

From  mine,  ah,  take  your  lips  away  ! 
Lest  heat  to  will  should  ripen,  and 

All  this  be  grave  that  had  been  gay. 

It  is  this  curl,  a  silken  nest, 

And  this  grey  eye  bright  as  the  dew, 
And  this  round,  lovely,  snow-white 
breast 

That  draws  desire  in  search  of  you. 

I  would  do  all  for  you,  meseems, 
But  this,  tho'  this  were  happiness ! 

I  shall  not  mingle  in  your  dreams, 
O  woman  full  of  wiliness  ! 


MARY  HYNES 

She  is  the  sky  of  the  sun, 
She  is  the  dart 

Of  love, 
She  is  the  love  of  my  heart, 
She  is  a  rune, 

She  is  above 
The  women  of  the  race  of  Eve 
As  the  sun  is  above  the  moon. 

Lovely  and  airy  the  view  from  the  hill 

That  looks  down  Ballylea ; 
But  no  good  sight  is  good  until 

By  great  good  luck  you  see 
The  Blossom  of  the  Branches  walking 
towards  you 
Airily. 

is 


THE  COOLUN 

Come  with  me,  under  my  coat, 

And  we  will  drink  our  fill 
Of  the  milk  of  the  white  goat, 

Or  wine  if  it  be  thy  will ; 

And  we  will  talk  until 
Talk  is  a  trouble,  too, 

Out  on  the  side  of  the  hill, 
And  nothing  is  left  to  do, 

But  an  eye  to  look  into  an  eye 
And  a  hand  in  a  hand  to  slip, 

And  a  sigh  to  answer  a  sigh, 
And  a  lip  to  find  out  a  lip : 

What  if  the  night  be  black 
And  the  air  on  the  mountain  chill, 

Where   the  goat  lies   down   in  her 
track 

14 


THE   COOLUN  15 

And  all  but  the  fern  is  still ! 

Stay  with  me,  under  my  coat, 
And  we  will  drink  our  fill 

Of  the  milk  of  the  white  goat 
Out  on  the  side  of  the  hill. 


PEGGY  MITCHELL 

As  lily  grows  up  easily, 
In  modest,  gentle  dignity 
To  sweet  perfection, 
So  grew  she, 
As  easily. 

Or  as  the  rose  that  takes  no  care 
Will  open  out  on  sunny  air 
Bloom  after  bloom,  fair  after  fair, 
Sweet  after  sweet ; 
Just  so  did  she, 
As  carelessly. 

She  is  our  torment  without  end, 
She  is  our  enemy  and  friend, 
Our  joy,  our  woe ; 

16 


PEGGY  MITCHELL  17 

And  she  will  send 
Madness  or  glee 
To  you  and  me, 
And  endlessly. 


NANCY  WALSH 

I,  without  bite  or  sup, 

If  thou  wert  fated  for  me, 
I  would  up 

And  would  go  after  thee 
Through  mountains. 

A  thousand  thanks  from  me 

To  God  have  gone, 
Because   I   have   not   lost   my   senses 

to  thee, 
Though  it  was  hardly  I  escaped  from 
thee, 
O  ringleted  one ! 


18 


THE  RED   MAN'S  WIFE 

Then  she  arose 

And  walked  in  the  valley 
In  her  fine  clothes. 


After  great  fire 
Great  frost 

Comes  following. 

Turgesius  was  lost 

By  the  daughter  of  Maelsheachlin 
The  King. 

By  Grainne, 

Of  high  Ben  Gulbain  in  the  north, 
Was  Diarmuid  lost. 

19 


20     THE  RED   MAN'S  WIFE 

The  strong  sons  of  Ushna, 
Who  never  submitted, 
They  fell  by  Deirdre. 


NANCY  WALSH 

It  is  not  on  her  gown 
She  fears  to  tread ; 
It  is  her  hair 
Which  tumbles  down 
And  strays 
About  her  ways 
That  she  must  care. 

And  she  lives  nigh  this  place : 

The  dead  would  rise 

If  they  could  see  her  face ; 

The  dead  would  rise 

Only  to  hear  her  sing  : 

But  death  is  blind,  and  gives  not  ear 

nor  eye 
To  anything. 

£1 


22  NANCY  WALSH 

We  would  leave  behind 
Both  wife  and  child, 
And  house  and  home ; 
And  wander  blind, 
And  wander  thus, 
And  ever  roam, 
If  she  would  come  to  us 
In  Erris. 

Softly  she  said  to  me  — 

Be  patient  till  the  night  comes, 

And  I  will  go  with  thee. 


ANTHONY  O'DALY 

Since  your  limbs  were  laid  out 

The  stars  do  not  shine, 
The  fish  leap  not  out 

In  the  waves. 
On  our  meadows  the  dew 

Does  not  fall  in  the  morn, 
For  O'Daly  is  dead  : 

Not  a  flower  can  be  born, 
Not  a  word  can  be  said, 

Not  a  tree  have  a  leaf ; 
Anthony,  after  you 
There  is  nothing  to  do, 

There  is  nothing  but  grief. 


23 


MARY  RUANE 

The  sky -like  girl  whom  we  knew ! 

She  dressed  herself  to  go  to  the  fair 
In  a  dress  of  white  and  blue ; 
A  white  lace  cap,  and  ribbons  white 

She  wore  in  her  hair ; 
She  does  not  hear  in  the  night 
Her  mother  crying  for  her, 

Where, 

Deep  down  in  the  sea, 
She  rolls  and  lingers  to  and  fro 
Unweariedly. 


24 


WILLIAM  O'KELLY 

The  Protecting  Tree 

Of  the  men  of  the  land  of  Fal ! 
What  aileth  thee, 

And  why  is  it  that  all 
About  thee  grieves  ? 

Alas,  0  Tree  of  the  Leaves  ! 

Here  is  thy  rhyme  : 
Thy  bloom  is  lightened ; 
And  if  thy  fruit  be  withered 
Thy  root  hath  not  tightened 

At  the  same  time. 

Not  since  the  Gael  was  sold 

At  Aughrim.     Not  since  to  cold, 

25 


26  WILLIAM  O'KELLY 

Dull  death  went  Owen  Roe ; 
Not  since  the  drowning  of  Claim  Adam 
in  the  days  of  Noe 

Brought  men  to  hush, 
Has  such  a  tale  of  woe  come  to  us 

In  such  a  rush. 

The  true  flower  of  the  blood  of  the 

place  is  fallen : 
The  true  clean-wheat  of  the  Gael  is 

reaped. 

Destruction  be  upon  Death, 

For  he  has  come  and  taken  from  our 
tree 
The  topmost  blackberry ! 


SEAN  O'COSGAIR 

Pity  it  was  that  you  should  ever  stand 

In  ship  or  boat, 

Or  that  you  went  afloat 
Inside  that  ship ! 

The  lusty  steps  you  took  ! 

The  ways  and  journeys  you  knew 
how  to  wend 
From  London  back  to  Beltra, 

And  this  end ! 

You  who  could  swim  so  well ! 

What  time  you  sported  in  the  lifting 

tides 
The  girls  swam  out  to  you,  and  held 

your  sides 

27 


28  SEAN   OCOSGAIR 

When  they  were  weary,  for  they  knew 

they  were 
Safe,  because  you  were  there. 

Your  little-mother  thought  that  this 
was  true 
(And  so  she  made  no  stir 
Till  you  were  found), 
Although     an     hundred      might     be 
drowned,  you 
Would  come  back  safe  to  her, 
And  not  be  drowned ! 


THE   COUNTY  MAYO 

Now  with  the  coining  in  of  the  spring 

the  days  will  stretch  a  bit, 
And  after  the  Feast  of  Brigid  I  shall 

hoist  my  flag  and  go, 
For   since    the   thought    got   into    my 

head  I  can  neither  stand  nor  sit 
Until  I  find  myself  in  the  middle  of 

the  County  of  Mayo. 

In  Claremorris  I  would  stop  a  night 

and  sleep  with  decent  men, 
And  then  go  on  to  Balla  just  beyond 

and  drink  galore, 
And  next  to  Kiltimagh  for  a  visit  of 

about  a  month,  and  then 
I    would    only    be   a    couple   of    miles 

away  from  Ballymore. 

29 


30        THE   COUNTY  MAYO 

I  say  and  swear  my  heart  lifts  up  like 

the  lifting  of  a  tide, 
Rising  up  like  the  rising  wind  till  fog 

or  mist  must  go, 
When  I  remember  Carra  and  Gallen 

close  beside, 
And  the  Gap  of  the  Two  Bushes,  and 

the  wide  plains  of  Mayo. 

To  Killaden  then,  to  the  place  where 
everything  grows  that  is  best, 

There  are  raspberries  there  and  straw- 
berries there  and  all  that  is  good 
for  men ; 

And  if  I  were  only  there  in  the  middle 
of  my  folk  my  heart  could  rest, 

For  age  itself  would  leave  me  there 
and  I'd  be  young  again. 


EILEEN,  DIARMUID  AND  TEIG 

Be  kind  unto  these  three,  O  King ! 
For  they  were  fragrant-skinned,  cheer- 
ful and  giving ; 
Three  stainless  pearls,  three  of  mild, 

winning  ways, 
Three    candles    sending    forth    three 

pleasant  rays, 
Three  vines,  three  doves,  three  apples 

from  a  bough, 
Three   graces   in   a   house,  three  who 

refused  nohow 
Help  to  the  needy,  three  of  slenderness, 
Three  memories  for  the  companionless, 
Three    strings    of    music,    three    deep 

holes  in  clay, 
Three  lovely  children  who  loved  Christ 

alway, 

31 


32  EILEEN,  DIARMUID   &  TEIG 

Three    mouths,    three    hearts,    three 

minds  beneath  a  stone; 
Ruin  it  is !    three  causes  for  the  moan 
That  rises  everywhere  now   they  are 

gone : 
Be  kind,  O  King,  unto  this  two  and 

one! 


HONORO    BUTLER    AND    LORD 
KENMARE  (1720) 

In  bloom  and  bud  the  bees  are  busily 
Storing    against    the    winter    their 

sweet  hoard 
That  shall  be  rifled  ere  the  autumn  be 
Past,    or    the    winter    comes    with 

silver  sword 
To   fright   the   bees,    until   the   merry 

round 
Tells  them  that  sweets  again  are  to 

be  found. 

The  lusty  tide  is  flowing  by  in  ease, 
Telling   of   joy   along   its   brimming 
way ; 
Far  in  its  waters  is  an  isle  of  trees 

c  3'J 


34     HONORO  BUTLER  AND 

Whereto  the  sun  will  go  at  end  of 

day, 
As  who  in  secret  place  and  dear  is  hid, 
And  scarce  can  rouse  him  thence  tho' 

he  be  chid. 

Now  justice  conies  all  trouble  to  re- 
pair, 
And  cheeks  that  had  been  wan  are 
coloured  well, 

The  untilled  moor  is  comely,  and  the 
air 
Hath  a  great  round  of   song  from 
bird  in  dell, 

And  bird  on  wing  and  bird  on  forest 
tree, 

And  from  each  place  and  space  where 
bird  may  be 

The    languid    are    made    strong,    the 
strong  grow  stronger, 
There  is  no  grievance  here,  and  no 
distress, 


LORD   KENMARE  35 

The  woeful  are  not  woeful  any  longer, 
The  rose  hath  put  on  her  a  finer 

dress, 
And  every  girl  to  bloom  adds  bloom 

again, 
And    every    man    hath    heart    beyond 

all  men. 


For    the    Star    of    Munster,    Pearl    of 

the  Golden  Bough, 
Comes    joyfully    this    day    of    days 

to  wed 
Her   choice   of   all   whom   fame   hath 

loved  till  now, 
And   who   chose  her   from   all   that 

love  instead : 
The  Joy  of  the  Flock,  the  Bud  of  the 

Branch  is  she, 
Crown  of  the  Irish  Pride  and  Chivalry. 

He  is  a  chief  and  prince,  well  famed 
is  he, 


3G     HONORO  BUTLER  AND 

The    love    of    thousands    unto    him 
does  run; 
And    all   days    were    before    and    all 
will  be, 
He  was  and  will  be  loved  by  every 
one; 
And  she  and  he  be  loved  by  all  no  less 
Who    courage    love,    and    love,    and 
loveliness. 


The  nobles  of  the  province  take  their 

wine, 
And  drink  a  merry  health  to  groom 

and  bride ; 
They   shall   be   drunken   ere   the   sun 

decline, 
And     all     their     merrymaking    lay 

aside 
In    deep,    sweet    sleep    that    seals    a 

merry  day 
Until  the  dawn,  when  they  shall  ride 

away, 


LORD   KENMARE  37 

Leaving  those  two  who  now  are  one 

behind. 
O  Moon !     pour  on  the  silence  all 

thy  beams, 
And  for  this  night  be  beautiful  and 

kind ; 
Weave  in  their  sleep  thy  best  and 

dearest  dreams ; 
And  fortune  them  in  their  own  land 

to  be 
Safe  from  all  evil  chance,   and  from 

all  enmity. 


CLANN  CARTIE 

My  heart  is  withered  and  my  health 

is  gone, 
For  they  who  were  not  easy  put  upon, 
Masters  of  mirth  and  of  fair  clemency, 
Masters  of  wealth  and  gentle  charity, 
They  are  all  gone.       Mac  Caura  Mor 

is  dead, 
Mac  Caura  of  the  Lee  is  finished, 
Mac  Caura  of  Kanturk  joined  clay  to 

clay 
And  gat  him  gone,  and  bides  as  deep 

as  they. 

Their  years,  their  gentle  deeds,  their 

flags  are  furled, 
And  deeply  down,  under  the  stiffened 

world, 

38 


CLANN   CARTIE  39 

In  chests  of  oaken  wood  are  princes 

thrust, 
To  crumble  day  by  day  into  the  dust 
A  mouth  might  puff  at;     nor  is  left 

a  trace 
Of   those   who   did   of   grace   all   that 

was  grace. 

O  Wave  of  Cliona,  cease  thy  bellowing  ! 
And  let  mine  ears  forget  a  while  to 

ring 
At  thy  long,  lamentable  misery  : 
The  great  are  dead  indeed,  the  great 

are  dead ; 
And  I,   in  little  time,   will   stoop  my 

head 
And  put  it  under,  and  will  be  forgot 
With   them,   and   be   with   them,    and 

thus  be  not : 
Ease    thee,    cease    thy    long    keening, 

cry  no  more : 
End   is,  and   here  is  end,  and   end   is 

sore, 


40  CLANN   CARTIE 

And  to  all  lamentation  be  there  end : 
If  I  might  come  on  thee,  O  howling 

friend ! 
Knowing    that    sails    were    drumming 

on  the  sea 
AVestward    to    Eire,    and    that    help 

would  be 
Trampling    for    her    upon    a    Spanish 

deck, 
I'd    ram    thy    lamentation    down    thy 

neck. 


THE   LAND   OF  FAL 

If  all  must  suffer  equally,  and  pay 
In  equal  share  for  that  sin  wrought 
by  Eve, 
0  Thou,  if  Thou  wilt  deign  to  answer, 
say: 
Why  are  the  poor  tormented  ?    why 
made  grieve 
The    innocent?      why    are    the    free 
enslaved  ? 
Why   have   the   wicked   peace   tho' 
void  of  ruth? 
Why   are   there   none   to   pity,   when, 
dismayed, 
And  sick  with  fear,  the  lamb  bleats 
to  the  tooth 
That  tears  him  down  ?    why  is  the  cry 
unheard 

41 


42         THE   LAND   OF   FAL 

Of  lonely  anguish  ?    why,  when  the 
land  of  Fal 
Had   loved  Thee  long  and   well,   was 

she  not  spared 
The    ruin     that    hath     stamped    her 
under  all 
That  mourn  and  die  ? 


INIS  FAL 

Now  may  we  turn  aside  and  dry  our 

tears, 
And  comfort  us,  and  lay  aside  our  fears, 
For  all  is  gone  —  all  comely  quality, 
All  gentleness  and  hospitality, 
All  courtesy  and  merriment  is  gone ; 
Our  virtues  all  are  withered  every  one, 
Our  music  vanished  and  our  skill  to 

sing : 
Now  may  we  quiet  us  and  quit  our 

moan, 
Nothing  is  whole  that  could  be  broke ; 

no  thing 
Remains  to  us  of  all  that  was  our  own. 


43 


OWEN  O'NEILL 

If  poesy  have  truth  at  all, 
If  some  great  lion  of  the  Gael 

Shall  rule  the  lovely  land  of  Fal ; 
O  yellow  mast  and  roaring  sail ! 

Carry  the  leadership  for  me, 

Writ  in  this  letter,  o'er  the  sea 
To  great  O'Neill. 


44 


EGAN  O'RAHILLY 

Here  in  a  distant  place  I  hold  my 

tongue ; 
I  am  O'Rahilly : 
When  I  was  young, 
Who  now  am  young  no  more, 
I  did  not  eat  things  picked  up  from 

the  shore. 

The  periwinkle,  and  the  tough  dog- 
fish 

At  even-time  have  got  into  my  dish  ! 

The  great,  where  are  they  now !  the 
great  had  said  — 

This  is  not  seemly,  bring  to  him 
instead 

45 


46  EGAN  O'RAHILLY 

That  which  serves  his  and  serves  our 

dignity  — 
And  that  was  done. 

I  am  O'Rahilly : 

Here   in   a   distant  place   I   hold   my 

tongue, 
Who  once  said  all  his  say,   when  he 

was  young ! 


RIGHTEOUS  ANGER 

The  lanky  hank  of  a  she  in  the  inn 

over  there 
Nearly  killed  rne  for  asking  the  loan 

of  a  glass  of  beer  : 
May  the  devil    grip    the    whey-faced 

slut  by  the  hair, 
And    beat    bad    manners    out    of    her 

skin  for  a  year. 

That  parboiled  imp,  with  the  hardest 

jaw  you  will  see 
On   virtue's   path,    and    a   voice    that 

would  rasp  the  dead, 
Came  roaring  and  raging  the  minute 

she  looked  at  me, 
And   threw   me  out  of  the  house  on 

the  back  of  my  head  ! 

47 


48         RIGHTEOUS   ANGER 

If  I  asked  her  master  he'd  give  me  a 

cask  a  day ; 
But  she,  with  the  beer  at  hand,  not  a 

gill  would  arrange ! 
May  she  marry  a  ghost  and  bear  him 

a  kitten,  and  may 
The  High  King  of  Glory  permit  her 

to  get  the  mange. 


THE  WEAVERS 

Many  a  time  your  father  gave  me  aid 
When   I   was   down,   and   now   I'm 
down  again : 
You  mustn't  take  it  bad  or  be  dis- 
mayed 
Because  I   say,   young  folk   should 

help  old  men 
And    'tis    their    duty    to    do    that : 
Amen ! 

I  have  no  cows,  no  sheep,  no  cloak, 
no  hat, 
For    those    who    used    to    give    me 
things  are  dead 

And   my   luck   died   with   them :     be- 
cause of  that 

D  49 


50  THE   WEAVERS 

m 

I   won't  pay  you   a  farthing,   but, 

instead, 
I'll  owe  you  till  the  dead  rise  from 

the  dead. 

A  farthing !   that's  not  much,  but,  all 
the  same, 
I  haven't  half  a  farthing,  for  that 
grand 
Big    idiot    called    Fortune    rigged  the 
game 
And    gave    me    nothing,    while    she 

filled  the  hand 
Of  every  stingy  devil  in  the  land. 

You    weave,    and    I :     you    shirts :     I 
weave  instead 
My    careful    verse  —  but    you    get 
paid  at  times ! 
The  only  rap  I  get  is  on  my  head : 
But  should  it  come  again  that  men 

like  rhymes 
And  pay  for  them,  I'll  pay  you  for 
your  shirt. 


ODELL 

My  mind  is  sad  and  weary  thinking 
how 
The  griffins  of  the  Gael  went  over 
the  sea 
From    noble    Eire,    and    are    fighting 
now 
In    France    and    Flanders    and    in 
Germany. 

If  they,  'mid  whom  I  sported  without 
dread, 
Were  home  I  would  not  mind  what 
foe  might  do, 
Or  fear  tax-man  Odell  would  seize  my 
bed 
To    pay    the    hearth-rate    that    is 
overdue. 

51 


52  ODELL 

I  pray  to  Him  who,  in  the  haughty 
hour 
Of  Babel,  threw  confusion  on  each 
tongue, 
That  I  may  see  our  princes  back  in 
power, 
And    see    Odell,    the    tax-collector, 
hung. 


THE  APOLOGY 

Do  not  be  distant  with  me,  do  not  be 
Angry    because    I    drank    deep    of 
your  wine, 
But  treat  that  laughing  matter  laugh- 
ingly 
Because  I  am  a  poet,  and  incline 
By  nature  and  by  art  to  jollity. 

Always  I  loved  to  see,  I  will  aver, 
The  good  red  tide  lip  at  the  flagon's 
brim, 
Sitting  half  fool  and  half  philosopher, 
Chatting    with    every    kind    of    her 
and  him, 
And    shrugged    at    sneer    of    money- 


gatherer. 


53 


54  THE   APOLOGY 

Often  enough  I  trudge  by  hedge  and 
wall, 
Too  often  there's  no  money  in  my 
purse, 
Nor  malice  in  my  mind  ever  at  all, 
And  for  my  songs  no  person  is  the 
worse 
But  I  who  give  all  of  my  store  to  all. 

If  busybody  spoke  to  you  of  it, 

Say,  kindly  man,  if  kindly  man  do 
live: 
The  poet  only  takes  his  sup  and  bit, 
And  say:    It  is  no  great  return  to 
give 
For  his  unstinted  gift  of  verse  and  wit. 


THE   GANG 

Our  fathers   must  have   sinned :    we 
pay  for  it ! 
Through   them   the  base-born   tribe 
that  sold  their  king 

Sneaked  into  power,  and  in  high  places 
sit, 
And  do  their  will  and  wish  in  every- 
thing ; 

For    they    may    rob    and    kill,    grieve 
and  disgrace 

All  who  are  left  alive  of  Eiver's  race. 

They  seized  with  daring  guile  on  rank 

and  pelf, 
And  swore  that  they  would  never 

bend  a  knee 
Unto    the    king :      they    robbed    the 

Church  herself : 

55 


56  THE   GANG 

They  stole  our  princes'  lands,  and 

o'er  the  sea 
They  packed  those  princes,  or  drove 

them  away 
To  barren  rocks  and  fields  that  have 

no  clay. 

That  spawn  of  base  mechanics !    who 
could  ne'er, 
Though    Doomsday    came,   by   any 
art  be  made 

Noble,   are  noble  now,   and   have  no 
care : 
Snugly  they  sit  and  safe  and   un- 
afraid 

In  stately  places,  proud  as  if  the  mud 

And  slime  that  swills  their  veins  were 
princes'  blood. 

Let  us  be  wise  and  wary  of  that  gang ! 
When     they     seem    friendly    know 
they  have  much  wit, 


THE   GANG  57 

And  if  it  come  that  any  man  shall 

hang 
This   neck   will   go   unchoked,   that 

nose  unslit, 
For,  be  things  wry  and  crooked  and 

to  guess, 
Those  twisters  are  at  home  in  twisti- 

ness. 

We    know    now    what    their   plottings 

were  about, 
And  how   they   planned,   and   what 

thev  meant  to  win ; 
'Twas   God,   not   us,   that  took   their 

tangles  out, 
For  no  sleek  eel  inside  an  oily  skin 
Could    slip    with    more    address    from 

harm  than  they 
Can    slip    from    punishment    and    get 

away. 

When  trouble  came  it  was  their  plan 
to  get 


58  THE   GANG 

Our    friends    into    the    boat    they 

meant  to  leave, 
And  there  was  some  one  left  to  pay 

their  debt, 
And    they    were    free    again    to    lie 

and  thieve : 
So  they  could  put  the  feet  of  the  man 

they'd  rob 
Into  the  boots  of  the  one  that  did  the 

job. 

If  burnt  child   does  truly  dread   the 
flame, 
If  wounded  soldier  shrinks  again  to 
see 

A  steel  point  sloping  to  him,  let  the 
same 
Experience    teach    our    chiefs    that 
they  may  be 

Crafty    in    meeting    craft,    and    may 
beware 

Of  brewer's  bees  and  buzzers  every- 
where. 


THE   GANG  59 

Unto  the  Mind  which  pardons  sin  I 

pray, 
I  pray  to  Him  who  did  permit  our 

woe 
But  halted  our  destruction,  that  to-day 
Kindness   and   love   and   trust   and 

inward  glow 
Of  vision  light  our  hearts  with  light 

divine, 
So  that  we  know  our  way  until  the 

end  of  time. 


THE   GERALDINE'S   CLOAK 

I  will  not  heed  the  message  which 
you  bring : 
That    lovely    lady    gave    her    cloak 
to  us, 
And    who'd   believe   she'd   give  away 
a  thing 
And     ask     it     back     again  ?  —  'tis 
fabulous ! 

My  parting  from  her  gave  me  cause 
to  grieve, 
For    she,    that    I    was    poor,    had 
misty  eyes ; 
If  some  Archangel  blew  it  I'd  believe 
The  message  which  you  bring,  not 
otherwise. 

CO 


THE  GERALDINE'S   CLOAK    61 

I  do  not  say  this  just  to  make  a  joke, 

Nor    would    I    rob    her,    but,    'tis 

verity, 

So  long  as  I  could  swagger  in  a  cloak 

I    never    cared    how    bad    my    luck 

could  be. 

That  lady,  all  perfection,  knows  the 
sting 
Of   poverty   was    thrust    deep    into 
me : 
I  don't  believe  she'd  do  this  kind  of 
thing, 
Or  treat  a  poet  less  than  daintily. 


SKIM-MILK 

A    small    part    only    of    my    grief    I 

write ; 
And   if  I   do  not  give  you   all  the 

tale 
It    is    because    my    gloom    gets    some 

respite 
By  just  a  small  bewailing :   I  bewail 
That  I  with  sly  and  stupid  folk  must 

bide 
Who  steal  my  food  and  ruin  my  inside. 

Once  I  had  books,  each  book  beyond 
compare, 
But  now  no  book  at  all  is  left  to  me, 
And  I  am  spied  and  peeped  on  every- 
where, 

62 


SKIM-MILK  63 

And  my  old  head,  stuffed  with  latin- 

ity, 
And  with  the  poet's  load  of  grave  and 

gay 

Will   not   get   me   skim-milk   for   half 
a  dav. 


Wild  horse  or  quiet,  not  a  horse  have  I, 

But  to  the  forest  every  day  I  go 
Bending  beneath  a  load  of  wood,  that 
high ! 
Which  raises  on  my  back  a  sorry  row 
Of  raw,  red  blisters ;   so  I  cry,  alack, 
The  rider  that  rides  me  will  break  my 
back. 

Ossian,  when  he  was  old  and  near  his 
end, 
Met  Patrick  by  good  luck,  and  he 
was  stayed ; 
I  am  a  poet  too  and  seek  a  friend, 
A  prop,  a  staff,  a  comforter,  an  aid, 


04  SKIM-MILK 

A    Patrick    who    will    lift    me    from 

despair, 
In  Cormac  Uasal  Mac  Donagh  of  the 

golden  hair. 


BLUE  BLOOD 

We   thought   at   first,    this   man   is   a 

king  for  sure, 
Or  the  branch  of  a  mighty  and  ancient 

and  famous  lineage  — 
That    sillv,     sulky,     illiterate,    black- 

a  vised  boor 
Who  was  hatched  by  foreign  vulgarity 

under  a  hedge. 

The  good  men  of  Clare  were  drinking 

his  health  in  a  flood, 
And   gazing   with   me   in   awe   at   the 

princely  lad, 
And    asking    each    other    from    what 

bluest  blueness  of  blood 
IJis  daddy  was  squeezed,  and  the  pa 

of  the  da  of  his  dad  ? 

E  65 


m  BLUE   BLOOD 

We  waited  there,  gaping  and  wonder- 
ing, anxiously, 

Until  he'd  stop  eating  and  let  the 
glad  tidings  out, 

And  the  slack-jawed  booby  proved 
to  the  hilt  that  he 

Was  lout,  son  of  lout,  by  old  lout, 
and  was  da  to  a  lout ! 


O'BRUAIDAR 

I  will  sing  no  more  songs :    the  pride 
of  my  country  I  sang 
Through   forty   long  years   of  good 
rhyme,  without  any  avail ; 
And   no   one   cared  even   as   much  as 
the  half  of  a  hang 
For  the  song  or  the  singer,  so  here 
is  an  end  to  the  tale. 

If  a  person  should  think  I  complain 
and  have  not  got  the  cause, 
Let    him    bring    his    eyes    here    and 
take  a  good  look  at  my  hand, 
Let  him  say  if  a  goose-quill  has  cal- 
loused this  poor  pair  of  paws 
Or   the   spade   that   I   grip   on   and 
dig  with  out  there  in  the  land  ? 

67 


68  O'BRUAIDAR 

When   the  great  ones  were  safe  and 
renowned    and    were    rooted    and 
tough, 
Though  my  mind  went  to  them  and 
took  joy  in  the  fortune  of  those, 
And    pride    in    their    pride    and    their 
fame,  they  gave  little  enough, 
Not  as  much  as  two  boots  for  my 
feet,  or  an  old  suit  of  clothes. 

I  ask  of  the  Craftsman  that  fashioned 
the  fly  and  the  bird, 
Of  the  Champion  whose  passion  will 
lift  me  from  death  in  a  time, 
Of   the    Spirit   that   melts    icy   hearts 
with  the  wind  of  a  word, 
That  my  people  be  worthy,  and  get, 
better  singing  than  mine. 

I    had    hoped    to    live    decent,    when 
Ireland  was  quit  of  her  care, 
As  a  bailiff  or  steward  perhaps  in 
a  house  of  degree, 


OBRUAIDAR  69 

But  my  end  of  the  tale  is,  old  brogues 
and  old  britches  to  wear, 
So  I'll  sing  no  more  songs  for  the 
men  that  care  nothing  for  me. 


NOTE 

This  book  ought  to  be  called  Loot 
or  Plunder  or  Pieces  of  Eight  or 
Treasure-Trove,  or  some  name  which 
would  indicate  and  get  away  from  its 
source,  for  although  everything  in  it 
can  be  referred  to  the  Irish  of  from 
one  hundred  to  three  hundred  years 
ago  the  word  translation  would  be  a 
misdescription.  There  are  really  only 
two  translations  in  it,  Keating's  "O 
Woman  full  of  Wiliness"  and  Raftery's 
"County  Mayo."  Some  of  the  poems 
owe  no  more  than  a  phrase,  a  line, 
half  a  line,  to  the  Irish,  and  around 
these  scraps  I  have  blown  a  bubble 
of  verse  and  made  my  poem.  In 
other  cases,  where  the  matter  of  the 

71 


72  NOTE 

poem  is  almost  entirely  taken  from 
the  Irish,  I  have  yet  followed  my  own 
instinct  in  the  arrangement  of  it,  and 
the  result  might  be  called  new  poems. 
My  first  idea  was  to  make  an 
anthology  of  people  whom  long  ago 
our  poets  had  praised,  so  that,  in 
another  language  and  another  time, 
these  honoured  names  might  be  heard 
again,  even  though  in  my  own  terms 
and  not  in  the  historic  context.  I  did 
not  pursue  this  course,  for  I  could  not 
control  the  material  which  came  to 
me  and  which  took  no  heed  of  my 
plan  and  was  just  as  interesting.  It 
would,  therefore,  be  a  mistake  to  con- 
sider that  these  verses  are  representa- 
tive of  the  poets  by  whom  they  are 
inspired.  In  the  case  of  David 
O'Bruadair  this  is  less  true  than  in 
any  of  the  others,  but,  even  in  his 
case,  although  I  have  often  con- 
veyed his  matter  almost  verbatim, 
the  selection  is  not  representative  of 
the  poet.     One  side  only,  and  that  the 


NOTE  73 

least,  is  shown,  for  a  greater  pen  than 
mine  would  be  necessary  if  that  tor- 
nado of  rage,  eloquence,  and  humour 
were  to  be  presented ;  but  the  poems 
which  I  give  might  almost  be  taken 
as  translations  of  one  side  of  his 
terrific  muse. 

As  regards  Egan  O'Rahilly  a  similar 
remark  is  necessary.  No  pen  and  no 
language  but  his  own  could  even  dis- 
tantly indicate  a  skill  and  melody 
which  might  be  spoken  of  as  one  of 
the  wonders  of  the  world.  I  have 
done  exactly  as  I  pleased  with  his 
material. 

From  Antoine  O'Raftery  I  have 
taken  more  than  from  any  of  the 
others,  and  have  in  nearly  every  in- 
stance treated  his  matter  so  familiarly 
that  a  lover  of  Raftery  (and  who, 
having  read  a  verse  of  his,  does  not 
love  him?)  might  not  know  I  was 
indebted  to  this  poet  for  my  songs. 
His  work  is  different  from  that  of 
Keating,  O'Rahilly,  or  O'Bruadair,  for 


74  NOTE 

these  were  learned  men,  and  were 
writing  out  of  a  tradition  so  hoary 
with  age  and  so  complicated  in  con- 
vention that  only  learned  and  subtle 
minds  could  attempt  it.  I  have  won- 
dered would  Keating  or  O'Rahilly 
have  been  very  scornful  of  Raftery's 
work?  I  think  they  might  have  been 
angry  at  such  an  ignorance  of  all  the 
rules,  and  would  probably  have  torn 
the  paper  on  which  his  poems  were 
written,  and  sat  down  to  compose  a 
satire  which  would  have  raised  blisters 
on  that  poor,  blind,  wandering  singer, 
the  master  of  them  all. 

In  two  of  the  poems  which  I  tried 
to  translate  from  Raftery  I  have  com- 
pletely failed.  Against  one  of  them 
I  broke  an  hundred  pens  in  vain ;  and 
in  the  other,  "The  County  Mayo,"  I 
have  been  so  close  to  success  and  so 
far  from  succeeding  that  I  may  mourn 
a  little  about  it.  The  first  three  verses 
are  not  bad,  but  the  last  verse  is  the 
completest  miss :   the  simplicity  of  the 


NOTE  15 

original  is  there,  its  music  is  not,  and 
in  the  last  two  lines  the  poignance, 
which  should  come  on  the  reader  as 
though  a  hand  gripped  at  his  heart, 
is  absent.  The  other  failure  I  have 
not  printed  because  I  could  get  no 
way  on  it  at  all :  it  would  not  even 
begin  to  translate.  This  is  Raftery's 
reply  to  the  man  who  did  not  recognise 
him  as  he  fiddled  to  a  crowd,  and 
asked  "who  is  the  musician?" 

I  am  Raftery  the  poet, 
Full  of  hope  and  love, 
My  eyes  without  sight, 
My  mind  without  torment, 

Going  west  on  my  journey 
By  the  light  of  my  heart, 
Tired  and  weary 
To  the  end  of  the  road. 

Behold  me  now 
With  my  back  to  a  wall, 
Playing  music 
To  empty  pockets. 

See  Douglas  Hyde's  Life  of  Raftery. 

Dissimilar  as  these  poets  are  from 
each    other    in    time,    education,    and 


76  NOTE 

temperament,  they  are  alike  in  that 
they  were  all  poor  men,  so  poor  that 
there  was  often  little  difference  be- 
tween them  and  beggars.  They  all 
sing  of  their  poverty :  Keating  as  a 
fact  to  be  recorded  among  other  facts, 
O'Rahilly  in  a  very  stately  and  bitter 
complaint,  and  Raftery  as  in  the 
quotation  above;  but  O'Bruadair  lets 
out  of  him  an  unending,  rebellious 
bawl  which  would  be  the  most  desolat- 
ing utterance  ever  made  by  man  if  it 
was  not  also  the  most  gleeful. 


THE   END 


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"  '  Insurrections '  —  a  booklet  of  brilliant  verse.  ...  '  The  Hill  of 
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"  What  is  most  distinctive  in  Mr.  Stephens's  poetry  is  its  unflinch- 
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comfort  of  compromise  ...  a  new  paganism,  rigorous  and  unafraid." 
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"The  word  'pagan'  occurs  not  unnaturally  in  an  attempt  to  catch  his 
personality.  There  is  something  sunburnt  and  wind-touched,  something 
primitive  and  wild  in  his  lyrics,  that  sets  them  apart  and  gives  them 
savor.  At  times,  his  rustic  pictures  carry  one  straight  back  to  Virgil's 
'  Eclogues,'  or  to  Theocritus."  —  Bellman. 

"The  tremor  of  wildness  in  nature,  the  glint  of  unseen  wings,  the 
beat  of  fairies'  feet,  the  tune  on  the  wind,  the  terror  in  the  void  —  it  is 
perhaps  the  special  privilege  of  the  Celt  to  discern  these  things ;  but  few 
even  of  the  Celts  have  presented  them  with  such  witty  brevity,  such  choice 
felicity  of  phrase,  as  Mr.  Stephens  commands  from  his  happy  muse." 

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The  Rocky  Road  to  Dublin 

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"  James  Stephens'  new  book  of  poetry  has  about  it  a  dancing  inspiration, 
a  naive  directness,  a  serene  simplicity  of  spirit,  that  places  his  work  near  the 
work  of  William  Blake.  None  but  an  Irish  poet  can  see  so  vividly  the  joy 
and  the  drollery  of  life,  the  sadness  and  the  terror,  and  James  Stephens 
stands  first  in  the  expression  of  these  things.  Here  the  '  happy  Celt '  is 
portrayed  as  you  have  always  imagined  him  ;  here  is  the  best  out  of  the 
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"...  a  genuine  Irish  genius,  one  in  whose  heart  there  boils  and  bubbles 
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month."  —  Philadelphia  Press. 

"  Perhaps  the  real  charm  and  strength  of  the  book  lie  in  the  fact  that 
it  is  a  man's  book;  a  book  free  of  the  drawing-room  conventions,  decent 
or  indecent,  which  now  obsess  our  fiction ;  a  book  with  the  free  and  hearty 
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—  The  Nation. 

"  In  the  present  volume  there  are  fun,  fancy,  philosophy,  and  some- 
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"  Not  only  are  there  ladies  here,  but  men  and  incidents,  love  and  ha- 
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ous point  of  view  that  does  not  lack  human  feeling."  —  New  York  Times. 

"  One  can't  give  the  flavor  of  the  book  by  quoting  a  few  disconnected 
passages.  As  in  "  The  Crock  of  Gold,"  here  again  we  have  humor  of  a 
fresh  and  delightful  quality,  whimsy  and  philosophy,  poetry  and  romance, 
all  squared  up  with  life,  and  every  page  reflecting  one  of  the  most  original 
and  interesting  personalities  that  has  recently  appeared  in  literature." 

—  N.  Y.  Globe. 


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The  Demi-Gods 

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"To  write  'The  Demi-Gods,'  Mr.  Stephens  has  dipped  again  into 
the  sparkling  fountain  of  his  apparently  inexhaustible  originality.  As 
was  said  of '  The  Crock  of  Gold,'  it  does  not  matter  what  it  means  or 
whether  it  means  anything.  It  goes  to  our  heads  as  we  surrender  our- 
selves to  it  in  a  dazed  fascination."  — New  York  Tunes. 

"  It  would  be  hard  to  match  anywhere  in  recent  literature  the  fun 
and  imaginative  quality  of  the  narrative  of  the  theft  by  an  archangel 
('  Finding  is  keepings,'  said  the  archangel)  of  Brian  O'Brien's  thrip- 
pence,  whereby  heaven  and  hell  were  convulsed  and  Ireland  dis- 
turbed." —  Outlook. 

"  It  is  a  delightful  book.  The  fun,  the  absurdity,  the  pathos,  and 
above  all  the  poetry  ring  true."  —  Sun  Weekly. 

"  It's  like  a  spring  rainbow,  this  story,  so  full  is  it  of  wit  and  wis- 
dom and  tears  and  chuckles  and  tender,  half-sorrowful  smiles."  —  Chi- 
cago Herald. 

"  Only  James  Stephens,  the  Irishman,  could  have  written  this  tale." 
—  Pittsburgh  Post. 

"  Every  one  who  was  enthusiastic  over  '  The  Crock  of  Gold '  ought 
to  be  doubly  enthusiastic  over  '  The  Demi-Gods.'  ...  It  is  the  work 
of  a  writer  of  vision,  of  frolic  and  original  humour,  and  of  splendid  elo- 
quence." —  London  Daily  News. 

"  Scenes  of  freshness  and  beauty,  charm  and  humour,  and  a  light- 
stepping  grace  belong  to  Mr.  Stephens's  new  book,  as  to  all  others 
which  he  has  made.  .  .  .  Over  the  book's  manner  of  writing  and  its 
happenings  there  is  a  shining  quality  of  pure  magic."  —  London  Ob- 
server. 

"  It  is  a  book  of  obstinate  liveliness  and  charm."  —  London  Athe- 
naeum. 

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Publisher  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

"There  is  not  another  book  like  this  '  Crock  of  Gold'  in  English 
literature.  There  are  many  books  like  pieces  of  it,  but  the  humor 
and  the  style  —  these  things  are  Mr.  Stephens's  own  peculiar  gift." 

—  The  London  Standard. 


The  Crock  of  Gold 


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PRESS  OPINIONS 

"  It  is  crammed  full  of  life  and  beauty  .  .  .  this  delicious,  fantastical, 
amorphous,  inspired  medley  of  topsy-turvydom."  —  Ike  Times. 

"  In  '  The  Crock  of  Gold '  Mr.  Stephens  gives  the  measure  of  a  larger 
and  more  individual  talent  than  could  have  been  absolutely  foretold.  .  .  . 
There  has  been  nothing  hitherto  quite  like  it,  but  it  is  safe  to  prophesy 
that  by  and  by  there  will  be  plenty  of  imitators  to  take  it  for  their  pattern. 
.  .  .  Mr.  Stephens  has  produced  a  remarkably  fine  and  attractive  work 
of  art."  —  The  AthencEum. 

"We  have  read  nothing  quite  like  'The  Crock  of  Gold.'  It  has  a 
charm  and  humor  peculiar  to  itself,  and  places  its  author  high  in  the  ranks 
of  imaginative  poetic  writers." —  The  Globe. 

"  The  final  state  (in  the  case  of  the  reviewer)  was  one  of  complete  sur- 
render to  the  author  —  'go  on,  go  on,  fiddle  on  your  theme  what  har- 
monics you  will ;  this  is  delightful."  .  .  .  Mr.  Stephens's  novel,  '  The 
Charwoman's  Daughter,'  was  a  remarkable  book,  and,  in  this  one,  he 
shows  he  can  succeed  as  well  in  quite  other  directions."  —  The  Nation. 

"...  A  genuine  Irish  Genius,  one  in  whose  heart  there  boil  and 
bubble  fantasy  and  tears,  die  irony  that  burns  and  a  bitter-sweet  humor 
that  is  mad." — James  Huneker. 

"He  shows  a  mastery  of  humorous  and  imaginative  prose." —  The 
Post. 

"...  A  fantasy,  but  a  striking  exception  to  the  rule  that  fantasies  are 
usually  dull.  It  does  not  matter  what  it  means,  or  whether  it  means  any- 
thing. It  is  like  sunlight,  ozone,  and  high  spirits.  You  splash  in  it  as  in 
a  summer  sea.  There  is  no  book  in  the  world  in  the  least  like  it,  and 
probably  there  will  never  be  another,  which  is  the  best  reason  for  making 
the  acquaintance  of  this  one  before  it  is  out  of  print."  —  Atlantic  Monthly. 


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Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


le  Insurrection  in  Dublin 


By   JAMES    STEPHENS 

Author  of  "  The  Crock  of  Gold," 
"  The  Hill  of  Vision,"  etc. 

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These  passag?s  show  the  spirit  of  Mr.  Stephens'  book.  Of  the  writing  of 
the  bock  itself  he  says  : 

"  The  day  before  the  rising  was  Easter  Sunday,  and  they  were  crying  joy- 
fully in  the  churches,  '  Christ  has  risen.'  On  the  following  day  they  were 
saying  in  the  streets, '  Ireland  has  risen.'  The  luck  of  the  moment  was  with 
her.  The  auguries  were  good,  and,  notwithstanding  all  that  has  succeeded, 
I  do  not  believe  she  must  take  to  the  earth  again,  nor  be  ever  again  buried. 
The  pages  hereafter  were  written  day  by  day  during  the  Insurrection  that 
followed  Holy  Week.  .  .  .  What  I  have  written  is  no  more  than  a  state- 
ment of  what  passed  in  one  quarter  of  our  city,  and  a  gathering  together  of 
the  rumor  and  tension  which  for  nearly  two  weeks  had  to  serve  the  Dublin 
people  in  lieu  of  news.  It  had  to  serve  many  Dublin  people  in  place  of 
bread." 

"  To-day,  the  book  is  finished,  and,  so  far  as  Ireland  is  immediately  con- 
cerned, the  insurrection  is  over.  Action  now  lies  with  England,  and  on 
that  action  depends  whether  the  Irish  Insurrection  is  over  or  only 
suppressed." 

"  There  ;'s  no  bitterness  in  it,  but  it  is  the  sort  of  a  story  that  puts  a  lump 
in  your  throat.  In  a  series  of  little  pictures  Mr.  Stephens  makes  us  feel  the 
humor  and  the  piteousness  of  this  mad  uprising."  —  New  York  Tribune. 

"  Mr.  Stephens  has  written  a  notable  book,  and  one  that  will  take  its  place 
as  history.     It  should  be  read." —  The  Argonaut  (San  Francisco). 

"  It  is  a  model  of  restrained  emotion,  forming  an  artistic  and  at  the  same 
time  virile  picture  of  those  days."  —  Cleveland  Leader. 

"The  poet  reveals  himself  as  he  does  not  even  in  his  verse,  and  he  makes 
bs  share  his  unspeakable  sadness."  —  New  York  Sun. 


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/ 


PA-^cr  rM  ip 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  595  851    7 


NIVERSITY  OF  CA.  RIVERSIDE  LIBRARY 


3  12100112 


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